Poems

Batman’s lament © 2016/TomSquitieri This is her room I know her bed She has to come and pet my head This is her room I know her rug She likes when I sleep here and I wait for her hugs This is her room I know her smell Why isn’t she here? It makes me

May 2014   The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the feisty Twins that day: The score stood up by one run, with one inning more to play, And then when one A player got to first, and a second did the same, A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.   A straggling few

By Joseph Squitieri (my father) Of all the fishes in the sea, I’d rather be a bass. I’d swim about the sea all day and cut this English class.   I care not for this poetry and less for Keats or  Shelley; I’d rather be in Frank’s cafe with Flora, Ann or Nellie.   I

Mr. Polar Polar Mr. Polar Polar, how are you? Come to My House and not the zoo. Mr. Polar Polar, your fur is white, Come to my house to fly a kite. Mr. Polar Polar, your nose is black, Come to my house to scratch your back. Mr. Polar Polar, your tongue is pink. Come